


Dark, Soulful Eyes

by 94BottlesOfSnapple



Series: Tumblr Ficlets [6]
Category: Daredevil (TV), The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Breakfast, Flirting, Fluff, Forehead Kisses, M/M, Pre-Relationship, post-Punisher Season 2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-13
Updated: 2019-11-23
Packaged: 2020-06-27 07:50:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19786471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/94BottlesOfSnapple/pseuds/94BottlesOfSnapple
Summary: Foggy had, to his own general relief, been the last bastion of sanity in the face of Frank Castle’s siren call. Key word being 'had'. He’s pretty sure letting Castle convalesce in his bed and guilt him into dog-sitting is going to damage his thusfar spotless record.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This ficlet can also be found on Tumblr [here](https://pomegranate-belle.tumblr.com/post/185931723660/for-some-reason-i-just-really-want-you-to-write-a)

The thing about Frank Castle is… Ok, no, there are a lot of fucking Things About Frank Castle and most of them are mummified in police tape and clustered with red flags and hazard signs. But the biggest, most important Thing About Frank Castle is that somehow none of the rest of that seems to matter once he fixes those dark, soulful eyes on you, because once that happens you‘re Extremely Fucked. It had happened to Karen almost immediately. It had happened to Matt and he couldn’t even _see_ the dark, soulful eyes. Hell, it had happened to Brett — who had consequently buried his burgeoning positive feelings so deep that they only welled up on the few occasions he was sloshed enough to cry over Castle climbing back into an ambulance that was about to explode to save his life.

Foggy had, to his own general relief, been the last bastion of sanity in the face of Frank Castle’s siren call. Key word being 'had'. He’s pretty sure letting Castle convalesce in his bed and guilt him into dog-sitting is going to damage his thusfar spotless record.

“Thanks,” Castle says. “You’re good people, counselor.”

His face at this particular moment is more fucked up than Matt’s has ever been, even counting that time he got sliced and diced by a ninja — swollen and cut up and mottled with bruises — but Castle still somehow looks pretty. Soft and earnest with eyes so full they could drown you. Fucker.

“Just try not to kill anyone while you’re here,” Foggy mutters as he turns toward the door, because he can be just as petty as anyone else.

“Hey.”

It’s not said angrily or accusingly — just a low call for attention — but it cuts right through Foggy’s train of thought about finding where he stashed his spare comforter.

“What, Castle?” he asks, glancing back at the murderer tucked into his bed, blankets up to his chin like a kid.

“Bed’s pretty damn big, counselor. Probably room for two.”

Foggy starts about five different sentences before he finally finds his voice.

“Good _night_ , Castle!”

And then he scurries out the door and slams it shut, heart pounding, because what the fuck? What. The fuck.

* * *

Foggy tosses and turns on his uncomfortable couch well into the night, and wakes to the smells and sounds of sizzling bacon. His first delirious thought is that Matt’s broken into his apartment to cook him an apology breakfast for fighting that mugger while tipsy last week. That’s the level of fucked up weird his life has become. When he realizes the even more fucked up weird truth — a literal actual murderous vigilante who he let into his apartment of his own free will because he is a complete sucker is cooking him breakfast — he throws an arm over his eyes and groans. Max the pit bull takes this as his cue to sidle up to the couch with a jingle and rest his chin on Foggy’s belly.

“Morning, sunshine,” says Castle, and the slightly-mocking pet name is bizarre enough coming from him without adding in the fact that it’s a phrase Foggy himself has used about a million times.

He decides to set the fluttery feeling in his gut aside for a minute and strokes Max’s head before gently pushing him off and sitting up.

“Why are you making breakfast?”

“Most important meal of the day,” is Castle’s nonchalant reply. “Thought you were all educated and shit, counselor, you don’t even know that?”

“Yes, I know breakfast is the—” Foggy sighs and stands, shuffling a hand through his own hair to put it in some kind of order. “That’s not what I meant, and you know it. Excuse me for being surprised that the Punisher is a morning-after breakfast kind of guy.”

Castle coughs.

“We do something last night I forgot about? I know most people think I’m a little—” he waves the spatula in his hand in a circle near his head in lieu of saying crazy— “but I’m pretty god damn sure I’d remember that.”

Foggy’s face flashes hot.

“No! No one— nothing was done! At all!” he insists too-loudly. “I didn’t mean it like that!”

The worst thing is, he really didn’t; it’s the sort of wording he uses around Matt or Karen — comfortable, teasing, just toeing the line of flirting. And from either of them he’d be able to laugh at the equally-teasing reply. But there’s something about Castle’s low voice, about the look in his eye, that makes it all a little too much to handle.

“Figured a lawyer would be more think before you speak,” comments Castle as he slides the last pancake onto a stack and then settles the bacon next to it.

The food’s all situated on a massive serving plate Foggy had forgotten he even had. And of course Castle carries it all to the table one-handed, with a stack of two plates, cups, knives, and forks balanced in the other hand. Foggy’s too speechless at the ridiculousness of it all to offer to help verbally, but he does manage to get out the syrup, the butter, and the orange juice, so good for him.

* * *

“I don’t get you,” Castle says, when they’ve whittled the food down to two pancakes and three slices of bacon.

“… What?”

“Red was easy. You’re the tough one. Can’t get a good read on you,” Castle elaborates, pointing the tines of his fork at Foggy from across the table.

Foggy laughs, disbelieving.

“I am _literally_ the least mysterious person I know,” he protests, shoving another bite of pancake in his mouth. “I’m a complete open book.”

“And that’s what’s so god damn weird about you, Nelson. People just ain’t like that, you know, not really.”

To get out of answering, Foggy shrugs and feeds a little piece of bacon to Max. It sets Castle off on a long rant about proper canine nutrition that lasts for the rest of breakfast. Afterwards, Foggy manages a decent tactical retreat under the guise of washing the dishes. Eventually, though, he’s gotta go in to work. He’s really, really not looking forward to Matt’s super nose sniffing out his current company. It can only end one of two ways: with smug pronouncements of Foggy’s hypocrisy, or with worried scolding. Possibly both, now Foggy comes to think of it. Still, work is work, and Matt’s gonna find out about Foggy’s misguided good deed eventually.

“I’m heading out,” he calls over his shoulder from the front door of the apartment. “Just, you know, try not to die please.”

There’s a jingle of tags and Max’s heavy body is pressed against the side of Foggy’s leg. He makes the mistake of looking down into a pair of puppy dog eyes possibly more powerful than Matt’s, and can’t resist kneeling down to give Max some goodbye snuggles. It takes several minutes to convince himself to leave, but at last Foggy’s got a hand on the doorknob again.

Until there’s a heavy grip on his shoulder that makes him jump half a foot in the air.

“Jesus Christ, dude,” he gasps in complaint as Castle turns him around. “How can you be so silent when you’re—”

The rest doesn’t come out, because Frank Castle the literal actual Punisher is pressing a kiss to Foggy’s forehead. All Foggy’s brain can do in the face of a reality that bizarre is short out.

“Take care of yourself out there, counselor.”

“Right,” Foggy says numbly. “Right, yeah. Sure thing.”

Castle lets go and steps back, grabbing Max lightly by the collar to stop him from bounding our the door. Foggy can’t think of a response to make, so he just turns and leaves — into the hallway and down the stairs — heart racing and mind still spinning with questions.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I actually posted a continuation of this on tumblr like four months ago and I'm starting to move tumblr stuff over here for safe keeping, so... Figured it was time to tack this second part on to the first, haha.
> 
> You can find this part of the fic on tumblr [here](https://pomegranate-belle.tumblr.com/post/186359712760/your-my-frankfoggy-supplier-and-i-need-my-fix)

“Foggy, you smell like bad decisions,” Matt complains halfway through the morning when Foggy comes to consult him about phrasing for an opening statement, tugging off his glasses and folding the arms closed with a snap.

“I didn’t sleep with him!” protests Foggy, which in hindsight probably isn’t the rousing defense it seemed to be before it came out of his mouth.

“That sounds like something someone who had an ill-advised one night stand would say,” Karen sing-songs, settling on the corner of Matt’s desk. “Who did you sleep with?”

“I didn’t—”

“Frank Castle,” interrupts Matt, like the asshole he is.

“I just let him stay the night, Matt! Like you two haven’t done worse for the guy!”

“I didn’t invite him into my _home_ , Foggy!”

“No, but you definitely—”

Their escalating argument is drowned out by a loud, obnoxious slurping noise. When they both trail off to turn their attention to Karen, she lowers her coffee mug and smiles prettily at them.

“Oh, sorry, did I interrupt something?” she asks.

Matt sighs and scrubs a hand over his face.

“Karen,” he starts, very firmly and very earnestly — he would absolutely have his hands on his hips if he were standing, Foggy’s certain of it.

Unfortunately for Matt, Karen has too much willpower and too much experience wrangling her coworkers to fall for his well-meant but slightly-patronizing ‘I’m trying to look out for you’ tone.

“Matt,” she retorts, unimpressed. “If the next thing slated to come out of your mouth is some hypocritical, bullshit line about how dangerous Frank is, keep it to yourself.”

And thus starts a firm-wide battle. Foggy slinks back to his office to keep out of the line of passive-aggressive fire.

“Knew I should’ve slammed the door in Castle’s face,” he mutters to himself, but isn’t sure he actually means it.

* * *

When Foggy unlocks the door to his apartment and pulls it open, Castle’s standing right in the doorway. Foggy, very understandably he thinks, just about has a heart attack.

“Good day at work, counselor?” Castle asks, and the corner of his mouth is tilted up into the subtlest and most aggravating smirk Foggy has ever seen.

“World War III has ignited in my office thanks to you,” Foggy mutters, shoving past him into the apartment and trying very hard not to memorize the feeling of that rock-hard bicep under his hand.

Castle closes the door and clicks the lock, before following at a sedate pace. Max dances up to them both, his whole body wiggling with excitement.

“Red get pissy with you?” Castle guesses, crouching down to scratch Max behind the ears.

Foggy, whose leg muscles are not built for extended crouching, gives up the ghost and just plops his ass onto the floor to pet the dog.

“He thinks we slept together. Or at least he’s _claiming_ he does just to have something to gripe about — god knows with that freaky super nose he should _know_ we didn’t.”

Castle glances up from Max and gives Foggy what he’d swear was a speculative once-over.

“He’s real concerned about your love life, huh?”

Foggy shrugs.

“He’s just doing it because he doesn’t like you,” he explains to Castle, “but it’s super dumb because it’s not like you didn’t immediately ping his hot-person-with-questionable-morals-radar and inadvertently get us all in trouble when he insisted we take your hopeless court case. No offense.”

Castle actually laughs at that. Like, ok, it’s more of a quiet little chuff than anything, but he’s pretty obviously amused.

“Nah. Hopeless is how I’d’ve described it too, even if you did make the best of it with some real pretty-sounding bullshit. And not to alarm you or nothing, but I think you just paid me a compliment, counselor.”

There’s a brief, blink and you miss it view of a toothy smile. It’s so unfairly pretty it makes Foggy’s face flush hot, and he considers again how it is he always ends up surrounded by people ten times out of the average human being’s league.

“Well excuse me for not being all repressed and unable to admit when another guy is attractive,” Foggy replies, maybe a little defensively.

Castle rolls his eyes.

“Oh for fuck’s— C’mere,” he mutters.

Then he curls one big hand around the back of Foggy’s neck and tugs him forward into a kiss.


End file.
